Jill Shalvis - Kiss Me, I'm Irish

“Can I help you, sir?”

Deuce blinked, still adjusting to the streaming sunlight where there shouldn’t be any, and focused on a young woman standing in front of him.

“Would you like a computer station?” she asked.

What he’d like is a Stoli on the rocks. He glanced at the bar. At least that was still there. But the only person sitting at it was drinking something out of a cup. With a saucer.

“Is Seamus Monroe here?” Not that he expected his father to be anywhere near the bar on a Tuesday morning, but he’d already tried the house and it was empty. Deserted-looking, actually. A little wave of guilt threatened, but he shook it off.

“Mr. Monroe isn’t here today,” the young lady beamed at him. “Are you the new software vendor?”

As if.

He sneaked a glimpse at the wall where Mom had hung his first autographed Nevada Snake Eyes jersey at the end of his rookie season. Instead of the familiar red number two, a black and white photograph of a snow-covered mountain hung in a silver frame.

“Do you have a phone number where I can reach him?”

She shook her head. “I couldn’t give you that, I’m sorry. Our manager is in the back. Would you like me to get her?”

Her? Dad had hired a female manager?

Then a little of the tension he’d felt for the past few weeks subsided. This was the right thing to do. It took a career-ending injury caused by monumental stupidity, but coming home to take over the bar was definitely the right thing to do.

Obviously, someone had already exploited his father’s loss of interest in the place and made one too many changes. Deuce would set it all straight in no time.

“Yeah, I’ll talk to her,” he agreed.

She indicated the near-empty bar with a sweep of her hand. “Feel free to have a cup of coffee while I get Ms. Locke.”

Locke?

That was the first familiar sound since he’d arrived in Rockingham. He knew every Locke who had ever lived in this town.

In fact, Deuce had just had an email from Jackson Locke, his old high-school buddy. A typical what-a-jerk-you-are missive laced with just enough sympathy to know Jack felt Deuce’s pain for ending a stellar baseball career at only thirty-three years old. Jack’s parents had moved to Florida years ago…so that left Jack’s sister, Kendra.

Deuce swallowed hard. The last time he’d seen Kendra was the week he’d come home for his mother’s funeral, about nine years ago. Jack’s baby sister had been…well, she’d been no baby then.

And Deuce had been a total chicken scumbag and never called her, not once, afterwards. Even though he’d wanted to. Really wanted to.

But it couldn’t be Kendra, he decided as the hostess scooted away. Back then Kendra was weeks away from starting her junior year at Harvard. Surely the Hahvahd girl with a titanium-trap brain and a slightly smartass mouth hadn’t ended up managing Monroe’s. She’d been on fire with ambition.

And on fire with a few other things, too. His whole body tightened at the memory, oddly vivid for having taken place a long time and a lot of women ago.

This Locke must be a cousin, or a coincidence.

He leaned against the hostess stand—another unwelcome addition to Monroe’s—and studied the semi-circle of computers residing precisely where the pool table used to be.

Someone had sure as hell messed with this place.

“Excuse me, I understand you need to speak with me?”

Turning, the first thing he saw was a pair of almond-shaped eyes exactly the color of his favorite Levi’s, and just as inviting.

“Deuce?” The eyes flashed with shock and recognition.

He had to make an effort to keep from registering the same reaction.

Was it possible he’d slept with this gorgeous woman, kissed that sexy mouth that now opened into a perfect O and raked his fingers through that cornsilk-blond hair—and then left without ever calling her again?

Idiot took on a whole new meaning.

“Kendra.” He had absolutely no willpower over his gaze, which took a long, slow trip over alabaster skin, straight down to the scoop neck of a tight white T-shirt and the rolling letters of Monroe’s across her chest. All lower-case.

The letters, that was. The chest was definitely upper-case.

A rosy tone deepened her pale complexion. Her chin tilted upward, and those blue eyes turned icy with distrust. “What are you doing here?”

“I came home,” he said. The words must have sounded unbelievable to her, too, based on the slanted eyebrow of incredulity he got in response. He took another quick trip over the logo, and this time let his gaze continue down to a tiny waist and skin-tight jeans hugging some seriously sweet hips.

He gave her his most dazzling smile. Maybe she’d forgiven him for not calling. Maybe she’d stay on and work for him after he took over the bar. Maybe she’d…

But, first things first. “I’m looking for my dad.”

She tucked a strand of sunny blond hair behind her ear. “Why don’t you try Diana Lynn’s house?”

Diana Lynn’s house? What the hell was that? Had he gone to assisted living or something? “Is she taking care of Dad?”

That earned him a caustic laugh. “I’ll say. Diana Lynn Turner is your father’s fiancée.”

“His what?” Men who’d had pacemakers put in a year ago didn’t have fiancées. Widowed men with pacemakers, especially.

“His fiancée. It’s French for bride-to-be, Deuce.” She put a hand on her hip like a little punctuation mark to underscore her sarcasm. “Your dad spends most of his days—and all of his nights—at her house. But they’re leaving tomorrow morning for a trip, so if you want to see him, you better hustle over there.”

Deuce had been scarce for a lot of years, no doubt about it. But would his father really get engaged and not tell him?

Of course he would. He’d think Deuce would hate the idea of Seamus Monroe remarrying. And he’d be right.

“So, where does this Diana Lynn live?”

She waved her hand to the left. “At the old Swain mansion.”

He frowned. “That run-down dump on the beach?”

“Not so run-down since Diana Lynn worked her magic.” She reached into the hostess stand and pulled out some plastic menus, tapping them on the wood to line them up. “She has a way of livening everything up.”

Oh, so that’s what was going down; some kind of gold digger had got her teeth into the old man. Deuce hadn’t gotten home a moment too soon.

“Don’t tell me,” he said with a quick glance toward the pit of computers to his right. “She’s the mastermind behind the extreme makeover of the bar.”

“The bar?” Kendra slid the menus back into their slot and looked in the opposite direction—toward the bar that lined one whole wall. “Well, we haven’t been able to close long enough to rip the bar out yet.”

He didn’t know what word to seize. We or rip or yet.

“Why would you do that?”

She shrugged and appeared to study the bank of cherry-wood that had been in Deuce’s life as long as he’d lived. He’d bet any amount of money that the notches that marked his height as a toddler were still carved into the wood under the keg station. “The bar’s not really a money-maker for us.”

Us, was it? “That’s funny,” he said, purposely giving her the stare he saved for scared rookies at the plate. “Most times the bar is the most profitable part of a bar.”

His intimidating glare didn’t seem to work. In fact, he could have sworn he saw that spark of true grit he’d come to recognize right before some jerk slammed his curve ball into another county.

“I’m sure that’s true in other business models,” she said slowly, a bemused frown somehow just making her prettier. “But the fact is, the bar’s not the most profitable part of an Internet café.”